Progress is an interesting concept. In my lifetime, we’ve moved from handheld paper fans to air-conditioning. Being cool in South Georgia summers is real progress as far as I’m concerned. The old black phones that once squatted like oversized frogs on tables gave way to portable phones. Back in the day, I never had to look for the phone. It went nowhere. Now I search all over the house for a phone because we leave our three here, there, and yonder. Just yesterday we were laughing about the old bag phones that preceded today’s slim-line cell phones. The new ones slide compactly into our backpacks, our purses, even our pockets. But I scratch my head about some of the things that have been done in the name of progress.

As the four-lane Highway 341 became a reality, my father’s century old oak trees fell in the name of progress. We cried, but the trees fell anyway. Buck Head Road (spelled as two words after Mr. Buck Head) once saw the cars moving slowly down its lanes because of its ruts and washboards. Cars became stuck in the mud when the rains fell. Many times Larry had to take the truck out to rescue some unfortunate soul. A few times he had to rescue me. I don’t wish to go back to the unpaved road, but I would like to see people slow down. Now everyone thinks it’s a raceway. We’ve lost several good animals to progress over the years, but we’ve finally put up a fence. Now that’s real progress.

Never in my life have I gotten up and built a fire to warm my family, but my mama and daddy did. Every morning they rose early and built a roaring fire in the living room so that we could dress in a warm room. Mama killed many a chicken and fried it up for supper. She helped to butcher hogs. I wouldn’t know how to start, nor do I want to. I’m glad to relegate many of these things to the past.

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